Crappy Work Ethic.

I’m doing a terrible job of getting a writing project done. Evidence here, under your eyeballs. I’m writing here like a champ! Getting it done! But the job I get paid for? Sigh.

I ate two pieces of cake today though. And, I fed the chickens joyfully and I bought all the tchotchkes for the party give away bags. whatever demon mother first came up with the birthday family giving presents OUT at the party? Damn her to hell. Anyhow, kid wanted gum to be given out. so i have gum. Gum.

And I don’t even have anything exciting to write. I’m sort of blissing out on my kid’s birthday. I just adore her, and she’s nine. What a great age. I tell you, I’ve loved every single age, once toddlerdom ended. Every single one. For all three kids.

So, I’m blissed out, and having a hard time tying myself to the writing job. I had a call with a client and took on some other jobs, so I’m laughing at myself a bit, because I clearly think I’m going to meet my deadline and all will be well, even though said deadline is creeping up my ass as I type.

colorful language, yes. but really.

Almost forgot to post this today, because its almost dark and its three pm and i just want to snuggle and have my tea and live like I’m supposed to live, in swathes of flannel with cheeks pinked from being outside in bluster.

Boy, this is windy ramble. So says I. and so says todays weather. So we match. It is well with me.

I’m smiling contentedly at you whilst the time slips away.

A moment of well.

  • love love.
dirty dry pattern texture
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I wonder pretty often about this place I live in. How I can improve it, how I can honor it, imbue it with my spirit while I’m sharing space temporarily. . .

I’ve got a lot of houseplants, dude. Each time a mood strikes me, I find myself holding a potted plant. There is a lot of greenery here, almost all centered around the kitchen, so I can remember to water what needs watering. Out of sight out of mind is real with me.

So here we are. In the season of plastic on all the windows, the plants must be moved, the tables turned, the plants which have summer homes returned to the nook off the kitchen. Things get crowded. I forget who needs less light and who is downright scared of direct light.

Houseplants. Out of place, like an animal raised in captivity, not knowing its roots, not unhappy maybe, but definitely not in its natural environment.

Sometimes I feel like that. Like I belong somewhere else, a rebel in a commune, wearing a bra while everyone else bakes cookies naked. (i would never wear a bra if i didn’t have to, ever.)

Like I belong hanging from a tree in some rain forest, living happily on air.

Its not all the time, this feeling, but it creeps around often enough that I can give it a friendly squeeze.

Is this what will happen to me when the last of the kids is gone? Will I be wearing caftans and cooking curries and being Mrs. Roper?

(bonus points if you understand that reference.)

I’m curious about it, really, because of that creep familiarity. I love LOVE that I still am wondering what I will be when I grow up, at 47.

I wonder if I am the only one.

See you soon, wonderkinds. This was day 10.



I’ve mentioned before that I am swamped with melancholy in this month and next. The anniversary of my dad’s death and the necessity of sharing birthdays of children with my ex and all the tearing up of my insides at the still new change of holiday appearances, all that? Oh god, the feeling of loss is so damn pervasive, its the chill in my toes of winter. It swamps me, and I am still working on it, but am spending most of my time just looking forward to New Year’s Day, the day everything is finished and everything can begin.

When I say ‘most of my time’ that is mostly a lie. I’m busy, we’re all busy and I don’t necessarily have the time to focus on my inner workings all day. But, BUT, I am aware of a somewhat constant undercurrent of sadness.

So. When a friend told me about a writing group that focused on grief, it did not feel like a horrorshow. It felt like a possibility, a way to purge myself of this feeling, or at least to acknowledge it at a deeper level than just in type, here.

It was tough. I didn’t want to. and sometimes, knowing the depths of loss that people can be in, it can make my grieving of a father, and a man I thought I knew, or the girl i was when i believed in people, feel somehow less significant. When someone is in the rawness of it, and you see, remember and don’t feel it anymore? awe inspiring how human we all are. and how much a part of human life loss and grief are.

I spend a lot of time in shallow waters, and it is much safer there. but the truth isn’t there, and when i woke up this morning (daylight savings be damned) I felt relieved. Somehow the writing of it has released some of it for me today. I’ll take it, even if its temporary.

so thats where i’m at. day 8 of this month of constant writing. So far so good.

the work is ongoing.

-love love.

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Photo by Jessica Lynn Lewis on

Prompt was:

talk about the quality of light, the light where you are.

  • I’ve got two skylights in this room, and in the morning, I watch light move down the wall, into the room, fringed by whatever woodwork is up there on the outside. The windows are dirty, and the light drags their dirty shadows down into my kitchen. And I don’t mind. I never notice their dirt, except right this minute, so its not an actual bother. To clean them, I’d have to go climb on the roof, which might be fun but is certainly not anywhere on my list. At all.
  • The way in which my screen is set up into bullets is thrilling. Makes it so easy for me to transfer, share the way the light is coming through my windows. Looking out I can see the light moving into my neighbor’s yard, illuminating their hedge, lighting up their porch, or what was a porch at one point. Amazing how we don’t go into our neighbor’s houses anymore. As a kid, I swear I was in other people’s houses more than my own. At least, at a certain age. If you asked me to, I could take you right through Mrs. King’s house. Or Mrs. Almeida’s.
  • The light here is on, it always reaches that time of day when I realize the kitchen light is still on, a remnant from putting the kids on the bus in the dark. Not needed, not needed, save the money.
  • We are in the apple crisp season, the crunch of leaves, the cold ‘mom, leave me alone I don’t need a sweater’ season. It is a deep love and a melancholy ache. A melancholy age, my typo just said, before i fixed it. Maybe that’s it too, I’m in a melancholy age. Not old, and not young, the in-between.
  • I’m fine. I’ve been finer, but light, light, back to the light. And its an action, a direction to go. The shadows being slowly moved, as the light does its thing. Its funny, right? How the light directs it? Moves the darkness around by its presence. Actually showing that the darkness is not a force in and of itself. At least at this time of day, the light wins.
  • The light the light the lights, I am besieged by desires to buy Christmas décor. Beads, lights, candles, sparkles of all the kinds. I justify the spending usually but not this year and I’m trying to judge if its better to say lots of little no’s to my impulses and then break down later, or to say a little yes and move on from there. Maybe the yes will flavor the month, relax my compulsions a little.
  • Today I thought I lost seven thousand words that I’ve written. I yelled and raged and didn’t know who to tell besides my boss. It devastated me. And truly, and well.
    and then i found it, and i’m choosing to carry on, to run off to freeze my ass off at a darkening-early farm stand and just carry the joy i’ve been given, even if i want to kick it in the nuts, repeatedly, for scaring me and making me ragecry. i’m still happy it showed up. so there is a kind of light in that, right?
  • And also, while i was ragecrying and trying to save myself by calming myself and putting on more sweaters, i realized that what i do is actually hard, and creating something from nothing is a goddamned miracle. so i chilled, and calmed. and then i found it. so there is always light, and shadow-shoving. so there, man. so there.

Day two. I want to punch something still.


woman in black tank top and black shorts carrying black leather handbag
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nono? again?

I’m mulling over making the attempt to write every day that many make in this month of november. the original thrust was for people to try and write a novel in a month, NANOMOPO? NANOWO? to push themselves to write every day until a body of work appeared.

i can, sincerely and without question, guarantee you that i am not producing a novel.

i’m just mulling over writing daily, here, in a public way. Let me know what you think. ok?

in other news, the car is ‘pretty much’ fixed. my mom helped me pay for it, and i know that is what family is for. and i still have embarrassment anyways, and somehow making sure that it isn’t a secret makes me feel better.

(for the life of me i will never ever be able to keep a secret about myself. for others? til death. but myself? never ever. Is this a flaw? a strength? a quirk? idgaf. yes, that.)

and i’ve taken one day off each week to just do household things like bathe myself in hot water slowly, and wash my own clothes, not just theirs, maybe clean up the front porch of summer items. a slow and easy day, and if i end up watching tv i will be sad but only a little. anything goes. its rest time, for me. no kids, and any worries that come up, i solve by washing dishes. today i washed two windows, in preparation for the winterizing plastic that is going up. and, i wrote, here, publicly.

days of rest are unpaid, yes, but they do pay dividends.

my inner hellacious bitch voice is muted by the green of leaves still holding on out there. there has been no hard frost here yet and the anne of green gables beauty is all over the place. october’s crisp apple crunch.


november is about missing things. people who are gone, lives we thought we’d have. there is something in this northeastern light that brings us all into this melancholy, all of us, i’m convinced.

there is a reason it begins with day of the dead.

i love you. do.


red apple lot in wooden crates
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